community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin’s
keeping. “I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to
tease myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He’s gone through a
good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he’s got over
his nonsense. But now he’s _too_ eager for life. These young men
are contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please
himself, it’s nothing to do with me.”

He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia’s image rose before him,
and a shudder ran over him. “No, I must give up all that now,” he
thought, rousing himself. “I must think of something else. It’s queer
and funny. I never had a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly
desired to avenge myself even, and that’s a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad
sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper--that’s
a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too--Damnation!
But--who knows?--perhaps she would have made a new man of me
somehow....”

He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia’s image
rose before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time,
she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that
he might have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand
to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that
instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his
heart...

“Aïe! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!”

He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly
something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He
started. “Ugh! hang it! I believe it’s a mouse,” he thought, “that’s the
veal I left on the table.” He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the
blanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over
his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking
with feverish chill he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing.
He shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet.
He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without
leaving the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and
suddenly darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one
instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over his body and down
his back under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up.

The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket
as before. The wind was howling under the window. “How disgusting,” he
thought with annoyance.

He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the
window. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. There was a cold
damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the
blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of
anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another,
incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his
mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or
the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees
roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling
on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright,
warm, almost hot day, a holiday--Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country
cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with
flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was
surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with
rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed
particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant
narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was
reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came
into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere--at the windows,
the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself--were flowers.
The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows
were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were
chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table
covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was
covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of
flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a
white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as
though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was
a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of
her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her
pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal.
Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle
beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself.
She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed
herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish
soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn
from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on
a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled....

Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the
window. He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously
into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with
his shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have been
something like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too,
probably there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of
rain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as
in a cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs of
objects. Svidrigaïlov, bending down with elbows on the window-sill,
gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed
by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. “Ah, the
signal! The river is overflowing,” he thought. “By morning it will be
swirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements and
cellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and men will curse in the rain
and wind as they drag their rubbish to their upper storeys. What time is

Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin’s

keeping. “I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to

tease myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He’s gone through a

good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he’s got over

his nonsense. But now he’s _too_ eager for life. These young men

are contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please

himself, it’s nothing to do with me.”

He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia’s image rose before him,

and a shudder ran over him. “No, I must give up all that now,” he

thought, rousing himself. “I must think of something else. It’s queer

and funny. I never had a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly

desired to avenge myself even, and that’s a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad

sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper--that’s

a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too--Damnation!

But--who knows?--perhaps she would have made a new man of me

somehow....”

He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia’s image

rose before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time,

she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that

he might have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand

to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that

instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his

heart...

“Aïe! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!”

He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly

something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He

started. “Ugh! hang it! I believe it’s a mouse,” he thought, “that’s the

veal I left on the table.” He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the

blanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over

his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking

with feverish chill he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing.

He shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet.

He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without

leaving the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and

suddenly darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one

instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over his body and down

his back under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up.

The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket

as before. The wind was howling under the window. “How disgusting,” he

thought with annoyance.

He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the

window. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. There was a cold

damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the

blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of

anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another,

incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his

mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or

the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees

roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling

on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright,

warm, almost hot day, a holiday--Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country

cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with

flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was

surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with

rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed

particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant

narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was

reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came

into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere--at the windows,

the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself--were flowers.

The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows

were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were

chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table

covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was

covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of

flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a

white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as

though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was

a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of

her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her

pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal.

Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle

beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself.

She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed

herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish

soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn

from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on

a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled....

Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the

window. He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously

into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with

his shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have been

something like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too,

probably there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of

rain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as

in a cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs of

objects. Svidrigaïlov, bending down with elbows on the window-sill,

gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed

by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. “Ah, the

signal! The river is overflowing,” he thought. “By morning it will be

swirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements and

cellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and men will curse in the rain

and wind as they drag their rubbish to their upper storeys. What time is